


Nothing Really Matters

by coffeelacedwords



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Angst, Desperation, M/M, Mild Gunplay, SOA style of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7621561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeelacedwords/pseuds/coffeelacedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Chibs follows Juice after all and honestly, Juice isn't surprised to see him. Set during 7x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Really Matters

Juice isn't surprised when Chibs bursts through the barely shut door of Wendy's apartment, rough hands slamming him into the wall so hard he sees stars. The door closes with a resounding bang. He swallows against the grip tight on his throat, long fingers crushing the life out of him, and hisses at the press of a gun to his jaw.

"Brother," Juice coughs out, struggling to speak around Chibs' hold.

"Don't," Chibs growls through his teeth. His eyes are cold as he looms closer, voice deathly quiet. "You don't get to call me that."

Juice's lips twist up into a sad smile. He wraps his fingers around Chibs' wrist, squeezing bone into bone. His hands are still shaking just thinking about the diner. There has to be a way back, he thinks furiously, a path he hasn't found yet. He leans into the barrel of the gun, his skin bruising, and knows he'd be dead already if there wasn't a way.

"You, the MC-"

Chibs shoves his skull back against the bare wall with a _crack_. Juice gasps at the pain, his vision swimming. He bites down the nausea as his throat bobs against the palm of Chibs' hand, leather flush against his skin.

"You're all I got," Juice whispers. He curses the obvious tears in his voice, realizing with horror that his face is wet with them. Thumbing against the skin at Chibs' wrist, he pleads, "You got to understand that."

Chibs face is blank, closed off.

"That doesn't matter anymore," he says, cutting deeper than any knife. A quick flick of his wrist and then there's hard metal twisting Juice's head to the side, the gun splitting his lip open. Juice licks at the cut, feeling his lip tremble. This is the endgame he was too stupid to see.

Chibs was always there for him, always defending him and helping him up no matter what, even with a fresh bruise around his neck. Juice should have known as soon as Chibs couldn't defend him anymore, as soon as he was the one to knock Juice down, that it was over.

Before he can beg for his life Juice rushes out a soft, "Make it quick."

Chibs frowns, his scars pulling across his cheeks in a crooked grin. The gun presses up into the soft underside of Juice's throat, his head tipped impossibly back. He blinks down the bridge of his nose and hopes he doesn't look as pathetic as he feels.

Juice finds no forgiveness in Chibs' eyes, no coming back from what he's done. His chest is heavy as he admits, "I'm glad it's you."

He means that. Chibs brought him into this club and it's only fair he's responsible for taking him out.

Chibs tightens his grip, a sneer on his face, before he releases Juice with a noise of disgust. Juice sucks in a greedy gulp of air, hands flying up to soothe his sore throat, and watches Chibs back up until he collapses on the couch with a sigh. He sits back, his gaze the only force holding Juice up even as his legs shake beneath him. The silence between them is unbearable. Juice is already too familiar with having no one to talk back to after just a few weeks.

"I didn't-"

"I don't want to hear it," Chibs says, gun steady at his hip.

Juice slides down to the floor, hands slipping lifelessly into his lap. That sickening sense of loneliness starts to swallow him again, like when he was hospitalized away from the club, how he feels every time his hair grows out. He never feels like himself without them. He can't go back to that empty place, unable to look at himself in a mirror.

"Chibs," he tries again. Juice wets his lips, his words raw and breathless from fear. "I'll do anything."

The club is the only home he's ever known, the only place where he feels needed, valued as someone important where there are people who love and depend on him. Desperation courses through him and hangs around his neck. He has to make Chibs understand. 

He can't be alone again.

Each move is slow and deliberate as Juice crawls until he's kneeling in front of Chibs. The gun never moves as Juice places his hand on a scratchy denim-covered knee, following the madness he feels. He pushes forward and forces his hand higher, thinking of his brothers and all those destroyed in their wake. He shoves past the voice telling him he's not strong enough, that he's nowhere near the man that his family deserves.

The barrel of the gun bumps against his chest as he straightens up, his other hand landing beside Chibs' thigh. Ignoring the gun, he sinks his knee onto the cushion's edge. The smell of leather and oil hits his senses, curling around him like a second skin. The Sons are all he has. He can't lose them.

Without a second thought, Juice surges forward and presses his lips to Chibs', feeling so lost. The gun digs into his gut as he inches closer and closer until he's straddling Chibs' lap. There's finally quiet in his head as he paws at that familiar road worn leather, fingers curling into a fist. It's the same kind of rush as speeding down an open road.

He moans into the kiss, shuddering with pleasure. His body is starved for touch, arching until their chests press together. The only thought driving him is knowing that he's already dead. He cups Chibs' face, mouth searching for that perfect angle. He tastes like smoke and Juice's blood. Juice inhales until his lungs burn.

"Chibs," he mumbles against warm lips, breathing sharply through his nose.

Juice's hips hitch forward when Chibs' other hand slides up to cup the back of his neck, that hot familiar touch scorching his skin. He drags his tongue against stubborn lips, aching for a deeper kiss.

"Please," he begs with a soft rasp in his voice, his mouth raw. He bumps his nose against Chibs' cheek, afraid of what he'll see on Chibs' face.

"Stupid kid," Chibs swears, pulling him back by the scruff of his neck. He swipes a gloved thumb across the sensitive skin just behind his ear. Juice shivers, hands clutching leather anxiously. "Bloody idiot."

Juice nods his head in agreement and leans back into Chibs' space, placing a messy kiss on the corner of his lips and another on his scar. His hands fumble up to frame Chibs' face, kissing him like it's his last. A ghost of a smile crosses his lips at the thought that it most likely is.

Chibs doesn't move, doesn't make this easy, except to cup a possessive hand to the back of Juice's skull. Heat rushes through him at the touch, hearing the unspoken praise always accompanied with each playful brush of a hand. Juice's wires are all crossed, already hard and aching.

Juice grinds against him and struggles to muffle each moan that slips out. He slides a hand between them and palms where Chibs is only half hard, wanting him to want this as much as he does. Chibs stops him.

His face is torn when Juice leans back, uncertain. Chibs studies Juice, eyes wandering across his face, down his chest where his cut is peeking out from his hoodie, stopping on where he's obviously hard and tenting the front of his pants. The gun rests on Juice's thigh, his knees slid wide and sinking into the cushions.

Chibs releases the vice grip on his wrist, pushing it up and away. With heavy fingers supporting the back of his neck, he holds Juice close.

"Finish it, boy," he orders, accent thick. Their noses bump, breath mingling together as Chibs slides Juice closer.

Never one to deny Chibs anything, he starts rolling his hips with fervor, his cock constricted and aching. He gasps against the crook of Chibs' neck, feeling more whole than he has since all that shit with the FEDs. The firm weight of Chibs' hand cupping his head is as familiar as the weight of his cut.

"Chibs," he murmurs, the name lost against warm skin, sliding his hands through black and grey peppered hair. He wraps his arms around Chibs' shoulders and rocks his hips faster, his orgasm creeping up on him, feeling dirty and dry. His cock aches with each slide of Chibs hand down his neck, at each brush of the gun against his side. Each touch, each press of lips to skin and brush of fingertips is dragging the very life out of him.

The thought that he's going to come without a hand on him goes straight through him, breathing out a dirty, " _Fuck_."

Chibs curses and jerks his hips up, gritting out a heated, “Juicy."

That's all it takes. His pace stutters as he tumbles over the edge, a strange sense of clarity washing over him as he comes in his pants, dry humping the only person he could trust with his life.

His mind feels thick as molasses and it takes him a moment to realize Chibs is hard beneath him. Juice leans in for one more kiss, still yearning for more contact, but he's suddenly thrown off with a blow to his collarbone, flying back to hit the table and knocking what little breath he has left out of him.

There's a trace of something across Chibs' face, something tragic and distraught and terrifying. Chibs drags a slow gaze down his body, splayed out and panting. He shakes his head before tucking his gun away and striding to the door.

Chibs lingers in the doorway, face hidden and grip hard on the frame. "This is your last warning," he says, a low rumble in the silence. "The next time I see you will be the last."

"I love you," Juice whispers, his body feeling numb. He says it again, words bouncing off the ceiling. The words topple out automatically like they always do when his brothers say it, like he's afraid they'll take it back, like he's unsure anyone can truly love him. Juice says it again even as the door slams closed, like there's someone there to answer him back.


End file.
